


Tonight, Tonight

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (In that he's a Good Person actually), Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, First Time, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, POV Zevran Arainai, Questioning, Sexuality, Zevran being Zevran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Alistair is confused about his feelings and unexpectedly discloses them to Zevran.  Zevran finds that nothing is as simple as it might seem.





	Tonight, Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurlana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/gifts).



> This is for the darling Aurlana, who is an utter peach and beta'd for me for the Exchange. When I saw this prompt on your list, I just couldn't say no... it's delightful. Thank you for being you!

The firelight shines in his hair and over his face; just as well, too, as he’ll be blushing again.  He’s trying to conceal his discomfort, but I can see it.  It’s in the hunch of his shoulders, the way that he shies away just a fraction before she touches him.  But the red light obscures the colour on his cheeks, and I know that Alistair would prefer it that way.  

 

Why?  She has made no disguise of the fact that she wants him.  A pretty thing, she is, our lady Warden: her body taut like one of her bowstrings, alive and alert, like some huntress bird.  She’s sure of herself, she looks at him in the firelight and reaches out a hand again, her fingers curved to cup his jaw this time, to pull him forward to kiss.  But he stiffens and jerks away, putting his hand to the back of his neck as if he is embarrassed.  What is it, Alistair?  Is it only shyness, or is it something else?  

I watch them, standing in the shadows, well back from the fire.  Because when one's life depends upon the quirk of an eyebrow or the flicker in the corner of a mouth, then one becomes adept at watching for certain signs, no?  It’s one of the things which the Crows teach you first: observation.  Before I did anything else for them, I watched. 

 

He’s quite the mystery, our royal bastard.  In Antiva, you know, they kill them as fast as they make themselves known.  Still, there is always the threat of one attaining their majority and making trouble, which I suppose is why the Crows do such good business.  It is not my place to know such things, of course -- I only do the killing.  Still, if business is good…

What’s this?  He’s getting up.  She’s watching him, her face all over confusion.  Has she said something to offend him?  She calls out, rising from the log they have been sitting on -- will she follow?  He’s walking quickly… no.  No, she is putting her hands on her hips, watching him still… but she will not follow.  

It surprises me.  Still, I find our lady Warden difficult to read.  She spared my life, so I owe her a debt… but she is both hard and brittle.  I am not sure if it is the situation she finds herself in, or something to do with becoming a Warden, but in any case, she has no feeling in her heart for others, no room for us there.  All within is buried under the grudge she carries against this Rendon Howe.

 

Which, of course, is fair.  He had her family killed, after all, and he was responsible for hiring me.  Ah, but what does one do?  One can become consumed with such things, if one lets it.  For myself, I find that there are grudges worth holding… as long as one can hold them carefully.  Much like a dagger, no?  If you hold that by the wrong end, then, well, my friend, things will not go very well for you!

 

It is very nice out tonight.  The moons shine over all, Satina bright and pale, her little sister following in her wake.  The breeze rustles the leaves of the trees overhead. For all that our lady Warden does not seem to know how to read a map -- the twists and turns we have taken, all over Fereldan! -- she has picked a beautiful spot to camp.  A small stream runs to the east, I can hear it from where I stand. Our lady Warden is now poking the fire as if it has mortally insulted her, and I glance toward Alistair’s retreating back.  I believe I will take a small stroll and see what our other Warden will do.

 

Observation is about more than just watching, of course.  It takes time -- it takes patience.  Do not think that because I seem flighty on the surface, that I am rash, or indecisive.  I know what I know, and you would underestimate me at your peril.  Alistair seems the same to me -- I think that under the rather bumbling exterior lies the potential for him to be a strong leader, perhaps even wise in his way.  

From what I have seen, his main weakness is that Alistair is a man who loves too deeply, and too soon.  He gives his heart to anyone who asks for it.  It is unfortunate.  Perhaps it is something he will outgrow… or outlast.  

An owl calls -- I look up into the branches and see it take flight, wings whispering.  In a city, it is easier to conceal oneself.  There are always people around, you see, and nothing conceals like other people.  

 

There are really only trees and darkness, out here in the wilderness.  But the night is quiet, and my boots make very little sound among the soft leaves as I walk, hardly bothering to muffle my footsteps intentionally.  I can hear Alistair, up ahead, through the forest -- he’s whacking something hard against something else.  There, there he is.  I stop; I cannot help cocking my head as I watch. 

With one deft stroke of his sword, he strikes the tree in front of him so hard that splinters fly from it.  Alistair grunts with the effort of pulling the blade free again.  In the moonlight, I can see him quite clearly from where I stand.  Again he hacks at the tree; I see where a rogue may turn under his blade at the apex of his swing, but only if they are swift about it.  The expression on Alistair’s face is strange.  He appears to be concentrating on hitting the tree with his sword, on the placement of his feet… but there is a peculiar angry confusion on his face.  This cannot stand.  I will help him, if I can.  If he will let me.

 

“Maker’s Breath!” he yelps when I sidle out from the shadows.  He’s spotted me from the corner of his eye, probably just the movement has caught his attention.  I cannot help it: I laugh.  

“What a greeting!” I return, leaning against the trunk of a tree and folding my arms over my chest.  “And what has this poor tree done to deserve this treatment?”

“Nothing.  I just… you know.  Practice,” Alistair mumbles, the point of his sword drooping in his hand, moving toward the earth.  He shifts, obviously uncomfortable, and looks out toward where the stream burbles happily along.  I raise my eyebrows, watching him, waiting.  Finally, he  grimaces and sheathes his sword before asking, “Was there something you wanted, Zevran?”

I shrug.  “Many things,” I tell him, smiling.  There is no weapon so disarming than a smile, I have found.  “But I would rather talk about you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.  I’m alright.  Just… uh…”  He shifts again, looks around himself.  “Look, I just need to practice.  Got to… keep up the fitness.  All that stuff.”

“I would not have thought that the tree offered much challenge to a warrior of your calibre,” I smile at him, and he rubs the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth curling in a small smile.  Oh, he’s pleased at the compliment!  How charming.  “Alistair,” I say firmly, though I’m smirking, and he smiles back when he looks at me, “If you wish to spar, you need only ask, you know.”

 

“Oh, you don’t… I mean, I wouldn’t want to bother you,” he blusters, and I shrug, pushing myself off the tree.  He looks away again quickly and takes a deep breath, frowning.  I take two steps toward him and stop; he looks as if he’s trying to hold his ground, but wants to step back.  Finally, he mutters, “I mean… I’m sure you’re busy… with… something.”

“Alas, I am not,” I tell him.  I’m still smiling, but… I realise, with a strange mixture of concern and elation, that it is less guarded.  The look of it has not changed -- I am aware of the expression on my face, always aware, one does not have the training that I have had only to let one’s guard down so easily -- but I find that this is a more honest expression of what I am feeling.  Alistair’s throat works as he swallows, then he frowns.

“So… I guess… I came down here to think.  Not spar or…” He gestures at the tree and smiles slightly, “Whatever that was.  I’m just… just a bit…”  Tension seems to ripple through him, over his shoulders, and once more he shifts and looks at the ground.  “It’s stupid.”

 

“If it is making you feel this way, then it is not stupid.  Perhaps you would prefer to talk about it?” I ask softly.  Fereldans can be strange about expressing emotion.  Though, certainly, it is always dangerous to confess our innermost thoughts to someone else.  One never knows how they will respond.  Alistair clenches his jaw and looks at the running water again, then scoffs.

“Not really,” he says, “It  _ is _ stupid.  I mean… I can look a bloody darkspawn in the eye, but I… I can’t seem to tell her that… that I…”

He grimaces and is silent for a while.  I wait.  He will tell me if he wishes… quite suddenly, he glances at me, and smiles slightly: “What are you looking at?”

“You, of course,” I grin.  The quiet of the evening seems to move around us, the chill descending, and I find that I cannot take my eyes from his.  Alistair swallows and clears his throat.  “I…” he croaks, then sighs.  “Look, if I tell you… if I tell you, then… can I trust you to keep it quiet?”

 

Slowly, I nod.  This is unexpected.  Perhaps it is desperation on his part, this trust… perhaps it is his nature.  The look in his eyes is so strange… so compelling, so needy.  It could break somebody’s heart, if they let it.  I take another step forward, and cock my head.  He sighs again.

“I think she likes me.  Elissa.  Uh, Warden Cousland.  You know.   _ Likes _ likes. And I just… I mean, she’s…”  He holds his hands out in front of himself briefly, open, as if he would take her in his arms; then his hands curl into fists and he drops them again.  “She… you know.  Wants… to… But I’m just not interested. Oh, Maker, I mean… I am.  Interested.  Just... just… not with her.  Maker.  This  _ is _ stupid.”    

“No, Alista…”

He laughs and shakes his head.  “No, it really is.  I don’t know what I want.  I’ve just… I’ve never… I haven’t done that before.  And… I just can’t picture it.  Every time I do… it’s… it’s not with her.  I don’t know what I want.”  He shakes his head again and covers his mouth quickly, then rubs the back of his neck.  “That’s not true either.  I do know what I want.”  He drops his voice, looks nervously at the ground, then back at me, “Who, I mean.”

 

I exhale.  Time seems to slow… isn’t it true that in all the moments of our lives, whenever a decision which will change so much is before us, time draws close around us?  Haven’t you felt that?  Where every motion slows and the gap between each beat of your heart seems an eternity?  

“Who?” I ask softly.  He shrugs and smiles weakly.

“You.  I’m sorry.  I know that… that I’m probably not what you’re looking for.  You’re so… independant.  So strong.  Maker, and so… I mean, you’re beautiful.  And I… I just, I need people.  Probably too much.  I want… I want to be loved.  And I don’t know what this is, but I know that I feel it, but it’s alright if you don’t feel it too, I mean, how could you, really, but… if, if you wanted… If you, you know… could…”

Quite suddenly, Alistair squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, brow creasing.  I sigh and look at the ground.  Truly, he is a good man.  In another life, perhaps…  

But he is right -- he needs people, he wants love.  What do I need?  What do I want?  I close my eyes briefly, powerless not to see Rinna, her beautiful eyes, her laughing lips, her blood on my hands.  “Alistair,” I tell him, opening my eyes and looking up at where he stands, tense and miserable, eyes still closed.  “Alistair, look at me.”

“Oh Maker,” he mutters, and looks at me, almost wincing when our eyes lock. “I’m sorry.  I…”

“Do not apologise,” I tell him seriously.  This is not the time for smiles and laughter.  “I am flattered, truly, but…”

“It’s alright, I…” he begins, but I hold up my hand and he falls silent.

“I am flattered,” I continue, “But I am concerned as well.  You say you have not done  _ that _ before.  I can only assume you mean sex.”  He looks away, then nods, and I cannot help it, I smile at him.  “I am not concerned with that.  I am concerned… because I do not want to hurt you… I do not want to break your heart.  You know what I am.”

 

He frowns, then looks at me, rather fiercely.  “Yes.  And you know what I am, too.  I feel… Zevran, I feel like we could have something good together.  I’m not saying I love you… I’m not stupid.  But I want you, I admire you, I think you’re brave and compassionate and kind… and that you don’t give yourself enough credit for those things.  I know you’ve been trained not to value them… but I do.  I feel like, I mean, I could use a bit of kindness here.  And… I feel…”

Alistair clenches his jaw then, blows a hard breath out of his mouth and takes two quick paces forward.  Instantly, my hands come up to defend myself -- I cannot help it, the instinct is old -- and then his hands, gentle and rough with callus, one is in my hair, the other at my waist, pulling me to him, his mouth is on mine and I move forward, reaching up to his shoulders, pressing my body into his.  His lips are clumsy but eager, and he tastes like elfroot from the healing potion and something sweet, like honey, he smells like sweat and wool and boiled leather.  Alistair, this is Alistair, standing in the moonlight next to this little stream, his armour hard against my chest, his hands soft on me, mouth moving on mine.  He groans quietly, and pulls back… but when he tries to step away, I hold him fast.

 

He looks at me, amber eyes dark in the darkness around us.  I smile up at him.  “Do that again,” I tell him, my lungs tight, breathing hard.  “Please, Alistair.  Nobody has ever said those things about me.  Nobody has ever meant them.  Kiss me again, and we will figure the rest out as we go.”

He smiles tentatively, his mouth opening as if he will speak.  But he does not; he moves forward, more slowly now, and once again we kiss.  Oh, he is gentle with me… so gentle.  The way that his hands move in my hair makes my breath catch in my lungs and I rock my hips into his thigh.  “Alistair,” I whisper, a gasp in the deep dark, “What do you want?”

He swallows so loudly that I smile; he returns it, though he looks very shy.  “This.  You.  Just you, here.  I… I mean… ” he stumbles into silence, and his lips curl into something self-deprecating.  

“That is easy, then,” I tell him.   He is breathing hard, and I can feel, occasionally, his gaze upon me.  I do not know what to think.  This is… it is beautiful, it is dangerous.  I need to tread carefully here.  

 

Because if the Crows do not kill me first, there may come a day when I will be told that my target is the next king of Fereldan; there may come a time, Andraste grant I live that long, that I am given the contract to kill him, or his wife, or his child.   _ I’m not saying I love you… I’m not stupid _ , Alistair repeats again in my mind, and I put it to one side.  I have to.  For now, let there only be this, the sight of him, the moonlight shining in his hair.  He looks at me, his expression rather awed, and smiles. 

 

He stands in the moonlight, tense, awkward.  As we watch each other, Alistair and I, he swallows and suddenly looks away.

I cannot help it.  “Alistair,” I whisper, “Look at me.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs sadly, “Is this a bad idea, Zevran?”

“Perhaps,” I tell him, and it would seem that the honesty of the remark piques something in him, because he looks at me again, this time with astonishment in his eyes.  “Do you think it is?  You only need say, if you would rather not continue.”

“No, no, I’m… I do.  I want to.”

“Alistair,” I tell him seriously, “You are under no obligation.  Either now, or at any time.  Tell me and it…”

 

He turns his head quickly to face me.  Again, that fearsome look is on his face; the one which speaks of steely resolve.  I have time to draw breath, and then his mouth is on mine, fierce, claiming kisses.  He opens to me, his hands clutching at my waist, my shoulder, pulling me in.  Maker, he is strong!  I smile into his kiss, gasp a laugh into his mouth and he echoes it, then pulls back again, his eyes worried. 

“Alistair,” I grin up at him, and my voice, it sounds hungry, deeper, his eyes fall closed slightly, and he smiles, as if his name on my lips was something he’d been waiting to hear his whole life long.  “Alistair,” I repeat, purely for the pleasure of it.  He takes a deep breath and sighs.

“Zev,” he whispers, and his eyes close entirely now.  There is trust in that gesture, and in the way his body leans into mine, as if he were trying to push his body into me.  I sigh, leaning into him, breath ghosting across his neck, and he strokes my hair gently.  

 

This is ludicrous.  I… I feel as if… I shift, foot-to-foot, suddenly uncomfortable.  “Well, this is all very well,” I tell him, my voice bright, and I feel him stiffen a little in my arms.  “But unless you intend to embrace me all evening, then I do believe that all that armour you’re wearing is beginning to offend my finer feelings.”

He sighs softly, and he moves away, enough that he can look at my face.   _ Is this a bad idea _ ? His voice, it repeats these words in my mind, and I smile at him.  It falters as he continues to watch me, that sad, hopeful look on his face.

In the end, I have to look away.  His arms are still around me, his body warm against me, and there is no place I would rather be tonight.  But tomorrow… ah, tomorrow.  I feel my expression change, and laugh a little -- this sentimental heart of mine, it has got me in trouble before now, why should this be any different?  I must act.

  
  


I move quickly, reaching up, tucking one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him toward me a third time.  His breathing is fast, he seems to hold it as I kiss him; he groans softly as my tongue enters his mouth.  Still kissing, I move backward, drawing him down with me to lie on his back on the pebbles at the shore of the little stream.  His hands are tentative on me, the touch light, as if he is frightened I will break.  And it hurts, strangely; it feels bitter, and joyous, and all too real.  I kiss him harder, biting his lip gently, grinding my hips up, moving so that I might straddle him.  

“Alistair,” I sigh, my hands moving restlessly over his chest, his throat, his shoulders, hearing him whimper and pant in my ear. “Alistair, how do you feel?”

“Uh huh,” he tells me quickly, his breathing already erratic.  “Do you… oh, Ma-- _ Maker _ , I…” He struggles, blinks his eyes open, then grins at me.

 

He is beautiful.  For a moment, he looks as if he wants to cover his face with his hands, then he meets my gaze for a moment.  He is  _ fierce _ , and loyal, and it makes… it makes something in me want to run far, far away from here… and at the same time, never move an inch from his side.  Then, Alistair makes a face and laughs a little.  “Maker,” he mutters, “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” I ask him seriously.  He releases a shuddering sigh and looks worried.

“I don’t know.  Maker… I never thought you might… might be interested,” he scoffs at himself and runs a hand through his hair.  “Is it hot?  It feels hot.  And… suddenly as if I might be wearing too many clothes.”

I laugh and lean forward, putting my hands either side of his head, leaning down until I can kiss his mouth gently.  “You are absolutely wearing too many clothes,” I tell him softly, “But I fear that this rather uncomfortable, yet scenic, place is not exactly right for making love.”

Alistair’s eyes go wide.  “I…” he begins, then stops to clear his throat.  “Are you… sure?”

“Are you?” I ask.  He blinks, hesitates a second, then nods quickly.

 

“Come then,” I tell him, and kiss him again, softly, slowly.  He responds in kind, and truly, I have never been touched in this way before; as if I am precious, as if I am delicate and breakable.  I do not know how to feel about it, and it is the most glorious kind of confusion.  I lean back and slide off him, holding my hands out toward him as I rise.  Alistair takes one, allowing me to pull him to his feet.

I begin walking, still holding his hand, but he hesitates.  “Zev,” he says cautiously, “I don’t want you to regret anything.”

The caution in his tone, if I had heard it in any other voice, would be irritating.  “I only regret a few things in my life,” I tell him, then turn, looking at him seriously.  “No matter how this ends, I do not think this will be one of them.  Alistair… you are kind, and gentle, and much more clever than anyone seems to credit you with.  If you desire me, even knowing all that I am, it would be my pleasure to seduce you.”

 

He laughs and ducks his head.  It is endearing, of course.  “And here I was thinking  _ I _ had seduced  _ you _ .”

“Oh?  Such subtlety in your seductive charms!” I laugh, and squeeze his hand.  The brook babbles over the stones, and he squeezes my hand in return.  Together, we walk back toward camp; tomorrow will take care of itself.


End file.
